


The Golden Isolation of Bilbo Baggins

by Potatochutney



Category: The Hobbit (Jackson Movies), The Hobbit - All Media Types
Genre: Bilbo does not remain in Erebor, But they get back together I promise, Erebor, Gold Sickness, M/M, Oops, Separations, Spoilers for final film, Thorin Lives, Two POVs, gold madness, kinda sad
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-03-23
Updated: 2014-07-09
Packaged: 2018-01-16 16:15:12
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,531
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1353718
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Potatochutney/pseuds/Potatochutney
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After the reclaiming of Erebor, Bilbo finds himself unsure of the Dwarf he cherished. Thorin began to change and Bilbo made the decision to leave, to return to the shire. Will he be able to continue like this?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Basically like 50% of this is bilbo reflecting and being sad ok no regrets

It started with a glance at stacks, piles, mountains of gold.   
Then it turned into a watchful eye, in between running from the deadly flames that threatened to consume them, threatened to obliterate their dreams for a home. 

 

And once the dragon was defeated, the careful calculating turned into unabashed staring. For a week after the battle, Thorin would not leave the hoard of gold, the endless flowing sea of metal. No matter how bad his wounds seemed, no matter how much any of the company begged, pleaded, he would not leave it. Thorin did not mourn his nephews, his little nephews, killed in the field of battle. Not a glance for his burglar, his hobbit. And then Bilbo knew. He knew that he was alone.   
He tried to see Thorin, to speak with him. But he was met with hostility, rather than tenderness which he had started to grow accustomed to. Gone were the nights that they would lie against one another in sleepy bliss. Gone were the days they would embrace. When Bilbo tried to lean against his beloved, foolish Dwarf surrounded by piles of gold, he found himself being given the cold shoulder, being told to go and help the others. Not to stay, to keep him company. Gone was the warmth, replaced by vast seams of cold metal. 

Bilbo had just realised he was so painfully and desperately in love with his King under the Mountain.

All the wealth in all of Erebor couldn’t replace the ache in his heart, the loneliness that would come from Thorin’s obsession with the precious metal. His Thorin, tainted by the curse of his bloodline, the curse that he loathed and wished his beloved could be free of.  
Within months, he returned to the Shire. Thorin did not react, nor did he try to stop the Hobbit, despite his promise that he would never allow his Hobbit to be from his sight. 

For a week, Bilbo wept. 

 

After years, the pain numbed, but he could not simply move on. He was Thorin’s One, which he had accepted with a heavy, lonely heart. Bilbo was certain he could not love again, despite such a short but intense surge of feelings to the broody king. 

Sometimes a Dwarf would come by, Bombur was a fan of the Halfling’s cooking, so would visit whenever he was going near the area. Bofur would come with barrels of ale, bringing it to the Green Dragon once a year, because he could and the locals were such fans of the alcohol brewed by Dwarves. But not once did he see Thorin. Whenever he asked, the Dwarves would lower their heads and mumble an apology in their unfamiliar language. Bilbo simply nodded. Of course. 

 

When Frodo came to him, Bilbo found his hollow heart being filled with sunshine once more, his little Frodo, head full of curls and eyes full of mirth, despite such a terrible loss at a young age. Many nights Frodo would sneak into Bilbo’s bed during the first weeks of living with Bilbo, after the loss of his parents. Bilbo would nod and hold the child, rocking him back to sleep humming a Dwarven lullaby. The one a dying Fili had hummed to a dying Kili, breath shaking and voice cracking as his little brother held onto the broken body of the wispy elf. Thorin did not see them die, what kind of close family would let that happen? Dís had screamed and mourned when she lay eyes on her dead sons, screamed at an unhearing Thorin for why he had let it happen.  
Thorin never replied to his sister to apologise. 

As Frodo aged, Bilbo found himself writing letters to Thorin. 

 

“Dearest...No, no. That won’t do. To Thorin? No that doesn’t...Doesn’t fit this.” Bilbo muttered to himself as he wrote, Frodo having gone to the woods to play with his young cousins.   
“Thorin.   
It has been many years since we last saw one another. I am sorry I have not returned to Erebor, but I do not think I would be warmly welcomed. You did not even care when I left. Is your heart numbed by lust for wealth? Am I nothing to you? You were my world. But now I have a world filled with light, rather than darkness and cold metal. I think I prefer this, at least. Even if I am alone and I ache for you. I do hope you will write back one day.   
Bilbo Baggins.” He dictated, despite being the one writing. He had a funny habit of speaking to himself, always had done. Especially when writing. Perhaps he would get a response? He had sent the first letter, hoping for a response.   
Then many followed, never getting a reply from the distant dwarf. He slowly began to pour his long held feelings into paper, hoping it would reach the Dwarf in his lonely keep. 

Never did he expect a response, he assumed these letters were unread. Unheard. Allowed to stack up in some corner to be burnt.   
Yet on one wet afternoon, the most peculiar thing happened. A letter came from Erebor. 

 

Bilbo’s heart was in his mouth, hands shaking as he fumbled with the paper, picking at the wax seal. The seal of the King under the Mountain, curiousity forcing him to begin opening it uneasily. A hand came to his mouth and he went to sit by the fire. 

‘To my dearest Bilbo.   
I did not mean to cause you this suffering for these past decades. I have read your letters. I was forced to read them, the death of my sister forcing me out of my madness. I too have wept, upon realising what I had let slip through my fingers. I have made provisions for a council to rule in my stead. On this day I leave Erebor and intend to travel to the shire. I will arrive a week after this letter arrives. I hope you will find it in your heart to speak with me again, however you made it quite clear how I have hurt you. Young Frodo sounds like he is good company for you to keep. Bofur told me that he made Frodo a toy some time ago, but I too wish to bring him something. It was something Fili and Kili used to play with. I cannot bear being apart any longer. 

My warmest and most loving regards, Thorin Oakenshield, fool under the mountain.’

Bilbo’s stomach dropped away.   
Oh.   
He went into a flurry of activity, the sheets had to be washed perfectly, everything had to be clean and proper, there had to be enough food for the Dwarf. A week? He didn’t know which day Thorin would arrive, or what he would do, or how he would react. Frodo noticed how jumpy Bilbo was, how quickly he ran to the door whenever it knocked loudly. 

On the ninth day, Bilbo was sat smoking in the front of the house, basking in the sunlight with his eyes shut, if only momentarily. Then he was in the shade, all of a sudden. He opened his eyes and dropped his pipe. 

There, in front of him was the great Dwarven king. He couldn’t speak, the words caught in his throat as everything came rushing back to him in a large wave, crashing down on his heart all at once. The letter Thorin had written him was crumpled, a little torn, but hadn’t left his hands since he’d gotten it, other than for when he bathed, of course. 

 

Bilbo stood with shaking legs, looking the Dwarf up and down. His beard was longer, his braids different, more grey in his hair and threatening his beard. His eyes darker, more accustomed to darkness too. 

 

“Bilbo.” Thorin said quietly, eyes downcast. Bilbo placed his pipe down and opened the gate slowly, trembling as he did so. 

 

“Th...You’re...You’re really here. In my garden. And you’re probably tired, come in and rest. I can make you something to eat? Ah...How about roasted meat on a sandwich?” Bilbo asked, almost scared to make reference to what he’d spoken of in the letters. “Oh. Yes, I suppose that might be a good idea. I haven’t had much rest while I was travelling, admittedly. I actually sent that letter when I was already on the road. Perhaps I could sleep and then we can talk?” Thorin suggested, voice deep, not booming but resonating inside of Bilbo’s soul. Bilbo blinked away the tears and nodded, guiding the Dwarf into his home. 

“It hasn’t changed much.” Thorin noted as he carefully took off his coat, leaving his axes and sword by the door.

“You have. Anyway, I’m afraid you’ll have to sleep in my bed as we have no others. I’ll be in my study if you want to speak with me.” Bilbo said, pointing in the direction of his room. Thorin let out a quiet noise in the back of his throat.   
“I will always want to speak with you, to be with you. I told you that you are my One.” Thorin softly took Bilbo’s smaller hand into his own. “Mahal curse me for being so foolish as to let you leave. Bilbo, I never said it, but I love you. I have loved you for so long that I can hardly remember what it felt like to not love you.” The Dwarf confessed, leaning close to rest his head against Bilbo’s for a fraction of a second before releasing him and heading toward the bedroom. 

“I have loved you too. For every day I have been without you- the real you.”   
And then Thorin smiled, and the sunlight inside Bilbo grew so much more intense.


	2. The Golden Isolation of The King under the Loneliest mountain

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is set during the first half of the first chapter, then the end is where the second half of the first chapter happens

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've kinda made the agings a little mixed up, because I know frodo came to bilbo about 40 years after five armies, so pretend that frodo came to bilbo right away after the death of his parents

Thorin had been set on keeping everyone and everything out of his kingdom if they were not his kin, his kind, not khazâd . If a visitor was not a Dwarrow then they would not be treated fairly. They all wanted his wealth, even that burglar that did not belong with them.

 

But the burglar did belong with them- not with them, with himself. 

He just wanted all of the gold, the Arkenstone! That’s what he wanted the whole time, not his heart and life which the king under the loneliest mountain was more than willing to give away to such a small creature with such...such spirit.   
He didn’t love Thorin, he hadn’t! He was a thief, a liar and a banished one at that. 

Surely that must be so? Bilbo, he hadn’t loved Thorin, had he? No. Only the gold loved him. 

And he loved his gold so deliciously, he didn’t need living touch when he had all of the gold he wanted, and it was his. He had no heirs, he didn’t need heirs. He had gold. 

No. No this wasn’t right. Dís had slapped him and thrown him by the beard into the hoard when she had arrived, he’d let Fíli and Kíli die and hadn’t even been there for his darling sister-sons. 

 

Something was wrong, he knew something was wrong. What was wrong? Why was it wrong?   
Mahal wouldn’t have made him wrong, there was nothing wrong. Nothing wrong. Nothing at all was wrong, he was fine. The lonely king under the mountain, forever making clasps for curled hair he wasn’t able to feel, forever protecting his people from them, the outside world that wanted to ruin them and plunder their bounty. That is what Thrór and Thrain had wanted, to protect their people, that is what Frerin had died for. He must uphold what was right, that was his duty given to him by Mahal. 

 

The days, months and years were a blur of protecting what was his

 

That was, until Gandalf appeared with a letter from the Shire and a knowing look. 

 

He put the letter away and went to his golden hoard, Gandalf had left as suddenly as he had arrived, it seems. Nothing was out of place and everything seemed right to him as he walked past mountains, streams and rivers of gold, of silver and even Mithril. He glanced to his left, to where smaug’s shed scales once lay, where his greatest treasure lay.

 

Where was the Arkenstone?   
The wizard! That old fool had stolen from him, had taken all that had mattered to him!

He returned to his chambers after shouting, screaming and cursing in Khuzdul and making some of the worst signs he knew in iglishmêk, so that all would understand how outraged he was about the old wizard stealing from him, from his people’s inheritance. 

He glanced at the letter and opened it, perhaps it would explain Gandalf’s behaviour. He was so very wrong.  
It was from Bilbo. 

 

“Thorin.   
It has been many years since we last saw one another. I am sorry I have not returned to Erebor, but I do not think I would be warmly welcomed. You did not even care when I left. Is your heart numbed by lust for wealth? Am I nothing to you? You were my world. But now I have a world filled with light, rather than darkness and cold metal. I think I prefer this, at least. Even if I am alone and I ache for you. I do hope you will write back one day.   
Bilbo Baggins.”

 

Thorin fell backwards, against his wall, sending all the beads for braids flying, sending it all away from him, all apart from the letter which fluttered to land in his lap. He could hear Bilbo’s voice ringing in his mind, reading the words to him, voice cracking at the questions that fell like knives into his heart. 

For the first time in the decades since the battle of five armies, his mind was clear. Dís was dead, had died of grief. He’d never listened to her saying that he had letters, letters upon letters from a Halfling far away, across the entire of middle earth. Never listened to her saying that Mahal should let her die, so she could be with people that genuinely cared for her, for her heart unlike her thick skulled brother. 

 

And then another realisation hit him.  
He’d let Bilbo leave, he just let him slip through his fingers. He’d let his entire family die, and allowed Bilbo to leave.   
Oh Mahal, why? 

When had the letter been written?   
Five years ago. A whole five years ago, Bilbo sent this.   
Instantly he flew into a whirlwind of movement, regardless of his state of appearance he ran to Dís’ chambers which were thankfully not too far away. Letters, so many. Possibly Hundreds. One for every week or so that had passed since the first. 

Thorin sat down, lit the fire in the hearth and began to read, and then re-read for days with little sleep. And he wept, for what he had lost. Bilbo, he had adopted his cousin-son and was happy without him. But...The love confessions, he glanced at one letter that said about how much he missed Thorin’s braids. That made his mind up, he needed to go, he needed to be with his One. 

 

He needed to make preparations.


End file.
